The First Chronicles Of Druss The Legend

Drenai 6 - The First Chronicles of Druss The Legend

BOOK FOUR: Druss the Legend

Prologue

Druss took Rowena back to the lands of the Drenai, and, with the gold presented to him by a grateful Gorben, bought a farm in the high mountains. For two years he lived quietly, struggling to be a loving husband and a man of peace. Sieban travelled the land, performing his songs and tales before princes and courtiers, and the legend of Druss spread across the continent.

At the invitation of the King of Gothir Druss travelled north, and fought in the Second Campaign against the Nadir, earning the title Deathwalker. Sieban joined him and together they travelled through many lands.

From the Second Chronicles of Druss the Legend.

And the legend grew.

Between campaigns Druss would return to his farm, but always he would listen for the siren call to battle and Rowena would bid him farewell as he set off, time and again, to fight, what he assured her, would be his last battle.

Faithful Pudri remained at Rowena’s side. Sieban continued to scandalise Drenai society and his travels with Druss were usually undertaken to escape the vengeance of outraged husbands.

In the east the Ventrian Emperor, Gorben, having conquered all his enemies, turned his attention to the fiercely independent Drenai.

Druss was forty five, and once more had promised Rowena there would be no more journeying to distant wars.

What he could not know was, this time, the war was coming to him.

The Battle of Skeln Pass

Druss sat in the sunshine, watching the clouds glide slowly across the mountains, and thought of his life. Love and friendship had been with him always, the first with Rowena, the latter with Sieben, Eskodas and Bodasen. But the greater part of his forty-five years had been filled with blood and death, the screams of the wounded and dying.

He sighed. A man ought to leave more behind him than corpses, he decided. The clouds thickened, the land falling into shadow, the grass of the hillside no longer gleaming with life, the flowers ceasing to blaze with colour. He shivered. It was going to rain. The soft, dull, arthritic ache had begun in his shoulder. “Getting old,” he said.

“Who are you talking to, my love?” He turned and grinned. Rowena seated herself beside him on the wooden bench, slipping her arm around his waist, resting her head on his shoulder. His huge hand stroked her hair, noting the grey at the temples.

“I was talking to myself. It’s something that happens when you get old.”

She stared up into his grizzled face and smiled. “You’ll never get old. You’re the strongest man in the world.”

“Once, princess. Once.”

“Nonsense. You hefted that barrel of sand at the village fair right over your head. No one else could do that.”

“That only makes me the strongest man in the village.”

Pulling away from him, Rowena shook her head, but her expression, as always, was gentle. “You miss the wars and the battles?”

“No. I… I am happy here. With you. You give my soul peace.”

“Then what is troubling you?”

“The clouds. They move in front of the sun. They cast shadows. Then they are gone. Am I like that, Rowena? Will I leave nothing behind me?”

“What would you wish to leave?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, looking away.

“You would have liked a son,” she said, softly. “As would I. But it was not to be. Do you blame me for it?”

“No! No! Never.” His arms swept around her, drawing her to him. “I love you. I always have. I always will. You are my wife!”

“I would have liked to have given you a son,” she whispered.

“I does not matter.”.

They sat in silence until the clouds darkened and the first drops of rain began to fall.

Druss stood, lifting Rowena into his arms, and began the long walk to the stone house. “Put me down,” she commanded. “You’ll hurt your back.”

“Nonsense. You are as light as a sparrow wing. And am I not the strongest man in the world?”

A fire was blazing in the hearth, and their Ventrian servant, Pudri, was preparing mulled wine for them. Druss lowered Rowena into a broad-backed leather armchair.

“Your face is red with the effort,” she chided him.

He smiled and did not argue. His shoulder was hurting, his lower back aching like the devil. The slender Pudri grinned at them both.

“Such children you are,” he said, and shuffled away into the kitchen.

“He’s right,” said Druss. “With you I am still the boy from the farm, standing below the Great Oak with the most beautiful woman in the Drenai lands.”

“I was never beautiful,” Rowena told him, “but it pleased me to hear you say it.”

“You were - and are,” he assured her.

The firelight sent dancing shadows on to the walls of the room as the light outside began to fail. Rowena fell asleep and Druss sat silently watching her. Four times in the last three years she had collapsed, the surgeons warning Druss of a weakness in her heart. The old warrior had listened to them without comment, his ice-blue eyes showing no expression. But within him a terrible fear had begun to grow. He had forsaken his battles and settled down to life in the mountains, believing that his presence nearby would hold Rowena to life.

But he watched her always, never allowing her to become too tired, fussing over her meals, waking in the night to feel her pulse, then being unable to sleep.

“Without her I am nothing,” he confided to his friend Sieben the Poet, whose house had been built less than a mile from the stone house. “If she dies, part of me will die with her.”

“I know, old horse,” said Sieben. “But I am sure the princess will be fine.”

Druss smiled. “Why did you make her a princess? Are you poets incapable of the truth?”

Sieben spread his hands and chuckled. “One must cater to one’s audience. The saga of Druss the Legend had need of a princess. Who would want to listen to the tale of a man who fought his way across continents to rescue a farm girl?”

“Druss the Legend? Pah! There are no real heroes any more. The likes of Egel, Karnak and Waylander are long gone. Now they were heroes, mighty men with eyes of fire.”

Sieben laughed aloud. “You say that only because you have heard the songs. In years to come men will talk of you in the same way. You and that cursed axe.”

The cursed axe.

Druss glanced up to where the weapon hung on the wall, its twin silver steel blades glinting in the firelight. Snaga the Sender, the blades of no return. He stood and moved silently across the room, lifting the axe from the brackets supporting it. The black haft was warm to the touch, and he felt, as always, the thrill of battle ripple through him as he hefted the weapon. Reluctantly he returned the axe to its resting place.

“They are calling you,” said Rowena. He swung and saw that she was awake and watching him.

“Who is calling me?”

“The hounds of war. I can hear them baying.” Druss shivered and forced a smile.

“No one is calling me,” he told her, but there was no conviction in his voice. Rowena had always been a mystic.

“Gorben is coming, Druss. His ships are already at sea.”

“It is not my war. My loyalties would be divided.”

For a moment she said nothing. Then: “You liked him, didn’t you?”

“He is a good Emperor - or he was. Young, proud, and terribly brave.”

“You set too much store by bravery. There was a madness in him you could never see. I hope you never do.”

“I told you, it is not my war. I’m forty-five years old, my beard is going grey and my joints are stiff. The young men of the Drenai will have to tackle him without me.”

“But the Immortals will be with him,” she persisted. “You said once there were no finer warriors in the world.”

“Do you remember all my words?”

“Yes,” she answered, simply.

The sound of hoofbeats came from the yard beyond, and Druss strode to the door, stepping out on to the porch.

The rider wore the armour of a Drenai officer, white plumed helm and silver breastplate, with a long scarlet cloak. He dismounted, tied the reins of his horse to a hitching rail and walked towards the house.

“Good evening. I am looking for Druss the Axeman,” said the man, removing his helm and running his fingers through his sweat-drenched fair hair.

“You found him.”

“I thought so. I am Dun Certak. I have a message from Lord Abalayn. He wonders if you would agree to ride east to our camp at Skeln.”

“Why?”

“Morale, sir. You are a legend. The Legend. It would boost the men during the interminable waiting.”

“No,” said Druss. “I am retired.”

“Where are your manners, Druss?” called Rowena. “Ask the young man to come in.”

Druss stepped aside and the officer entered, bowing deeply to Rowena.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady. I have heard so much about you.”

“How disappointing for you,” she replied, her smile friendly. “You hear of a princess and meet a plump matron.”

“He wants me to travel to Skeln,” said Druss.

“I heard. I think you should go.”

“I am no speechmaker,” growled Druss.

“Then take Sieben with you. It will do you good. You have no idea how irritating it is to have you fussing around me all day. Be honest, you will enjoy yourself enormously.”

“Are you married?” Druss asked Certak, his voice almost a growl.

“No, sir.”

“Very wise. Will you stay the night?”

“No, sir. Thank you. I have other despatches to deliver. But I will see you at Skeln… and look forward to it.” The officer bowed once more and backed away towards the door.

“You will stay for supper,” ordered Rowena. “Your despatches can wait for at least one hour.”

“I’m sorry, my lady, but…”

“Give up, Certak,” advised Druss. “You cannot win.”

The officer smiled and spread his hands. “An hour then,” he agreed.

The following morning, on borrowed horses, Druss and Sieben waved farewell and headed east. Rowena waved and smiled until they were out of sight, then returned to the house, where Pudri was waiting.

“You should not have sent him away, lady,” said the Ventrian sadly. Rowena swallowed hard, and the tears began to flow. Pudri moved alongside her, his slender arms encircling her.

“I had to. He must not be here when the time comes,”

“He would want to be here.”

“In so many ways he is the strongest man I have ever known. But in this I am right. He must not see me die.”

“I will be with you, lady. I will hold your hand.”

“You will tell him that it was sudden, and there was no pain - even if it is a lie?”

“I will.”

Six days later, after a dozen changes of mount, Certak galloped into the camp. There were four hundred white tents set in unit squares in the shadow of the Skeln range, each housing twelve men. Four thousand horse were picketed in the surrounding fields, and sixty cookfires were blazing under iron pots. The odour of stew assailed him as he reined in outside the large red-striped tent used by the general and his staff.

The young officer handed over his despatches, saluted and left to rejoin his company at the northern edge of the camp. Leaving his lathered mount with a groom, he removed his helm and pushed aside the tent flap of his quarters. Inside his companions were dicing and drinking. The game broke up as he entered.

“Certak!” said Orases, grinning and rising to meet him. “Well, what was he like?”

“Who?” asked Certak innocently.

“Druss, you moron.”

“Big,” said Certak, moving past the burly blond officer and throwing his helm to the narrow pallet bed. He unbuckled his breastplate, letting it drop to the floor. Freed of its weight, he took a deep breath and scratched his chest.

“Now don’t be annoying, there’s a good fellow,” said Orases, his smile fading. “Tell us about him.”

“Do tell him,” urged the dark-eyed Diagoras. “He’s been talking about the axeman non-stop since you left.”

“That’s not true,” muttered Orases, blushing. “We’ve all been talking about him.” Certak slapped Orases on the shoulder, then ruffled his hair.

“You get me a drink, Orases, and then I’ll tell you all.”

As Orases fetched a flagon of wine and four goblets, Diagoras moved smoothly to his feet and pulled up a chair, reversing it before sitting opposite Certak, who had streched out on the bed. The fourth man, Archytas, joined them, accepting a goblet of light honey mead wine from Orases and draining it swiftly.

“As I said, he is big,” said Certak. “Not as tall as the stories claim, but built like a small castle. The size of his arms? Well, his biceps are as long as your thighs, Diagoras. He is bearded and dark, though there is some grey in his hair. His eyes are blue, and they seem to look right through you.”

“And Rowena?” asked Orases eagerly. “Is she as fabulously beautiful as the poem says?”

“No. She is nice enough, in a matronly sort of way. I suppose she would have been lovely once. It’s hard to tell with some of these older women. Her eyes are gorgeous, though, and she has a pretty smile.”

“Did you see the axe?” asked Archytas, a wand-slender nobleman from the Lentrian border.

“No.”

“Did you ask Druss about his battles?” asked Diagoras.

“Of course not, you fool. He may be only a farmer now, but he’s still Druss. You don’t just march up and ask how many dragons he’s downed.”

“There are no dragons,” said Archytas loftily.

Certak shook his head, staring at the man through narrowed eyes.

“It was a figure of speech,” he said. “Anyway, they invited me to join them for supper and we chatted about horses and the running of the farm. He asked my opinion about the war, and I told him I thought Gorben would sail for Penrac Bay.”

“It’s a safe bet,” said Diagoras.

“Not necessarily. If it’s that safe, how come we’re stuck here with five regiments?”

“Abalayn is over-cautious,” answered Diagoras, grinning.

“That’s the trouble with you westerners,” said Certak. “You live so long with your horses that you start to think like them. Skeln Pass is a gateway to the Sentran Plain. If Gorben took that we would starve during the winter. So would half of Vagria, for that matter.”

“Gorben is no fool,” offered Archytas. “He knows Skeln can be defended forever with two thousand men. The pass is too narrow for the numbers of his army to be of any real use. And there’s no other way through. Penrac makes more sense. It’s only three hundred miles from Drenan and the countryside around is as flat as a lake. There his army could spread and cause real problems.”

“I don’t particularly care where he lands,” said Orases, “as long as I’m close by to see it.”

Certak and Diagoras exchanged glances. Both had fought the Sathuli and had seen the true, bloody face of battle, and watched the crows peck out the eyes of dead friends. Orases was a newcomer who had urged his father to buy him a commission in Abalayn’s lancers when news of the invasion fleet reached Drenan.

“What about the Cuckold King?” asked Archytas. “Was he there?”

“Sieben? Yes, he arrived for supper. He looks ancient. I can’t see the ladies swooning over him any longer. Bald as a rock and thin as a stick.”

“You think Druss will want to fight alongside us?” asked Diagoras. “That would be something to tell the children.”

“No. He’s past it. Tired. You can see it in him. But I liked him. He’s no braggart, that’s for sure. Down to earth. You’d never believe he was the subject of so many songs and ballads. They say Gorben has never forgotten him.”

“Maybe he sailed the fleet just for a reunion with his friend Druss,” said Archytas, with a sneer. “Perhaps you should put that idea to the general. We could all go home.”

“It’s an idea,” admitted Certak, biting back his anger. “But if the regiments separate, we’d be deprived of your delightful company, Archytas. And nothing is worth that.”

“I could live with it,” said Diagoras.

“And I could do without being forced to share a tent with a pack of ill-bred hounds,” said Archytas. “But needs must.”

“Well, woof woof,” said Diagoras. “Do you think we’ve been insulted, Certak?”

“Not by anyone worth worrying about,” he replied.

“Now that is an insult,” said Archytas, rising. A sudden commotion from outside the tent cut through the gathering drama. The flap was pulled aside. A young soldier pushed his head inside.

“The beacons are lit,” he said. The Ventrians have landed at Penrac.”

The four warriors leapt to their feet, rushing to gather their armour.

Archytas turned as he buckled his breastplate.

“This changes nothing,” he said. “It is a question of honour.”

“No,” said Certak. “It is a question of dying. And you’ll do that nicely, you pompous pig.”

Archytas grinned mirthlessly back at him.

“We’ll see,” he said.

Diagoras pulled down the earflaps of his bronze helmet and tied them under his chin. He leaned conspiratorially close to Archytas.

“A thought to remember, goat-face. If you kill him - which is extremely doubtful - I shall cut your throat while you’re sleeping.” He smiled pleasantly and patted Archytas’ shoulder. “You see, I’m no gentleman.”

The camp was in uproar. Along the coast the warning beacons were blazing from the Skeln peaks. Gorben, as expected, had landed in the south. Abalayn was there with twenty thousand men. But he would be outnumbered at least two to one. It was a hard five days’ ride to Penrac and the orders were being issued at speed, the horses saddled, and the tents packed away. Cooking fires were doused and wagons loaded as men scurried about the camp in seeming chaos.

By morning only six hundred warriors remained in the mouth of Skeln Pass, the bulk of the army thundering south to bolster Abalayn.

Earl Delnar, Warden of the North, gathered the men together just after dawn. Beside him stood Archytas.

“As you know, the Ventrians have landed,” said the Earl. “We are to stay here in case they send a small force to harry the north. I know many of you would have preferred to head south, but, to state the obvious, someone has to stay behind to protect the Sentran Plain. And we’ve been chosen. The camp here is no longer suitable for our needs and we will be moving up into the pass itself. Are there any questions?”

There were none and Delnar dismissed the men, turning to Archytas.

“Why you have been left here I do not know,” he said. “But I don’t like you at all, lad. You are a troublemaker. I would have thought your skills would have been welcome at Penrac. However, be that as it may. You cause any trouble here and you will regret it.”

“I understand, Lord Delnar,” replied Archytas.

“Understand this also: As my aide I will require you to work, passing on my instructions exactly as I give them to you. I am told you are a man of surpassing arrogance.”

“That is hardly fair.”

“Perhaps. I cannot see that it should be true, since your grandfather was a tradesman and your nobility is scarce two generations old. You will find as you grow older that it is what a man does that counts, and not what his father did.”

“Thank you for your advice, ray lord. I shall bear it in mind,” said Archytas stiffly.

“I doubt that you will. I do not know what drives you, but then I don’t care overmuch. We should be here about three weeks and then I’ll be rid of you.”

“As you say, my lord.”

Delnar waved him away, then glanced beyond him to the edge of the trees bordering the field to the west. Two men were walking steadily towards them. Delnar’s jaw tightened as he recognised the poet. He called Archytas back.

“Sir?”

“The two men approaching yonder. Go out to meet them and have them brought to my tent.”

“Yes, sir. Who are they, do you know?”

“The large one is Druss the Legend. The other is the saga poet Sieben.”

“I understand you know him very well,” said Archytas, barely disguising his malice.

“It doesn’t look much of an army,” said Druss, shading his eyes against the sun rising over the Skeln peaks. “Can’t be more than a few hundred of them.”

Sieben didn’t answer. He was exhausted. Early the previous day Druss had finally tired of riding the tall gelding borrowed in Skoda. He had left it with a stock breeder in a small town thirty miles west, determined to walk to Skeln. In a moment - in which Sieben could only consider he had been struck by transient and massive stupidity - he had agreed to walk with him. He seemed to remember thinking that it would be good for him. Now, even with Druss carrying both packs, the poet stumbled wearily alongside, his legs boneless and numb, his ankles and wrists swollen, his breathing ragged.

“You know what I think?” said Druss. Sieben shook his head, concentrating on the tents. “I think we’re too late. Gorben has landed at Penrac and the army’s gone. Still, it’s been a pleasant journey. Are you all right, poet?”

Sieben nodded, his face grey.

“You don’t look it. If you weren’t standing here beside me I’d think you were dead. I’ve seen corpses that looked in better health.” Sieben glared at him. It was the only response his fading strength would allow. Druss chuckled. “Lost for words, eh? This was worth coming for.”

A tall young officer was making his way towards them, fastidiously avoiding small patches of mud and the more obvious reminders of the horses picketed in the field the night before.

Halting before them, he bowed elaborately.

“Welcome to Skeln,” he said. “Is your friend ill?”

“No, he always looks like this,” said Druss, running his eyes over the warrior. He moved well, and handled himself confidently, but there was something about the narrow green eyes and the set of his features that nettled the axeman.

“Earl Delnar asked me to conduct you to his tent. I am Archytas. And you?”

“Druss. This is Sieben. Lead on.”

The officer set a fast pace which Druss made no effort to match on the last few hundred paces uphill. He walked slowly beside Sieben. The truth of it was that Druss himself was tired. They had walked most of the night, both trying to prove they still had a claim to youth.

Delnar dismissed Archytas and remained seated behind the small folding table on which were strewn papers and despatches. Sieben, oblivious of the tension, slumped to Delnar’s narrow bed. Druss lifted a flagon of wine to his lips, taking three great swallows.

“He is not welcome here - and, therefore, neither are you,” said Delnar, as Druss replaced the flagon.

The axeman wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Had I been sure you were here, I would not have brought him,” he said. “I take it the army has moved on.”

“Yes. They travelled south. Gorben has landed. You may borrow two horses, but I want you gone by sundown.”

“I came to give the men something to think about besides waiting,” said Druss. They won’t need me now. So I’ll just rest here for a couple of days then head back to Skoda.”

“I said you’re not welcome here,” said Delnar.

The axeman’s eyes grew cold as he stared at the Earl. “Listen to me,” said Druss, as softly as he could. “I know why you feel as you do. In your place I would feel the same. But I am not in your place. I am Druss. And I walk where I will. If I say I will stay here then I shall. Now I like you, laddie. But cross me and I’ll kill you.”

Delnar nodded and rubbed his chin. The situation had gone as far as he could allow it. He had hoped Druss would leave, but he could not force him. What could be more ludicrous than the Earl of the North ordering Drenai warriors to attack Druss the Legend? Especially since the man had been invited to the camp by the Lord of Hosts. Delnar did not fear Druss, because he did not fear death. His life had been ended for him six years before. Since then his wife, Vashti, had shamed him with many more affairs. Three years ago she had delivered to him a daughter, a delightful child he adored, even if he doubted his part in her conception. Vashti had run away to the capital soon after, leaving the child at Delnoch. The Earl had heard his wife was now living with a Ventrian merchant in the rich western quarter. Taking a deep, calming breath, he met Druss’ eyes.

“Stay then,” he said. “But keep him from my sight.”

Druss nodded. He glanced down at Sieben. The poet was asleep.

“This should never have come between us,” said Delnar.

“These things happen,” said Druss. “Sieben always had a weakness for beautiful women.”

“I shouldn’t hate him. But he was the first I knew about. He was the man who destroyed my dreams. You understand?”

“We will leave tomorrow,” said Druss wearily. “But for now let’s walk in the pass. I need some air in my lungs.”

The Earl rose and donned his helm and red cape, and together the two warriors walked through the camp and on up the steep rocky slope to the mouth of the pass. It ran for almost a mile, narrowing at the centre to less than fifty paces, where the ground dropped away gently in a rolling slope down to a stream that flowed across the valley floor, angling towards the sea some three miles distant. From the mouth of the pass, through the jagged peaks, the sea glittered in the fragmented sunlight, glowing gold and blue. A fresh easterly wind cooled Druss’s face.

“Good place for a defensive battle,” said the axeman, scanning the pass. “At the centre any attacking force would be funnelled in and numbers would be useless.”

“And they would have to charge uphill,” said Delnar. “I think Abalayn was hoping Gorben would land here. We could have sealed him in the bay. Left his army to starve, and brought the fleet round to harry his ships.”

“He’s too canny for that,” said Druss. “A more wily warrior you will not find.”

“You liked him?”

“He was always fair with me,” said Druss, keeping his tone neutral.

Delnar nodded. “They say he’s become a tyrant.”

Druss shrugged. “He once told me it was the curse of kings.”

“He was right,” said Delnar. “You know your friend Bodasen is still one of his top generals?”

“I wouldn’t doubt it. He’s a loyal man, with a good eye for strategy.”

“I should think you are relieved to miss this battle, my friend,” commented the Earl.

Druss nodded. “The years I served with the Immortals were happy ones, I’ll grant that. And I have other friends among them. But you are right, I would hate to come up against Bodasen. We were brothers in battle, and I love the man dearly.”

“Let’s go back. I’ll arrange some food for you.”

The Earl saluted the sentry at the mouth of the pass and the two men made their way up the slope to the camp. Delnar took him to a square white tent, lifting the flap for Druss to enter first. Within were four men. They leapt to their feet as the Earl followed Druss inside.

“Stand easy,” said Delnar. “This is Druss, an old friend of mine. He’ll be staying with us for a while. I’d like you to make him welcome.” He turned to Druss. “I believe you know Certak and Archytas. Well, this black-bearded reprobate is Diagoras.” Druss liked the look of the man; his smile was quick and friendly, and the gleam in his dark eyes bespoke humour. But more than this he had what soldiers call “the look of eagles’ and Druss knew instantly he was a warrior born.

“Nice to meet you, sir. We’ve heard a lot about you.”

“And this is Orases,” said Certak. “He’s new with us. From Drenan.”

Druss shook hands with the young man, noting the fat around his middle and the softness of his grip. He seemed pleasant enough, but beside Diagoras and Certak he seemed boyish and clumsy.

“Would you like some food?” asked Diagoras, after the Earl had departed.

“I certainly would,” muttered Druss. “My stomach thinks my throat’s been sliced.”

“I’ll get it,” said Orases swiftly.

“I think he’s a little in awe of you, Druss,” said Diagoras as Orases raced from the tent.

“It happens,” said Druss. “Why don’t you ask me to sit down?”

Diagoras chuckled and pulled up a chair. Druss reversed it and sat. The others followed suit and the atmosphere eased. The world is getting younger, thought Druss, wishing he had never come.

“May I see your axe, sir?” asked Certak.

“Certainly,” said Druss, pulling Snaga smoothly from the oiled sheath. In the older man’s hands the weapon seemed almost weightless, but as it passed to Certak the officer grunted.

“The blade that smote the Chaos Hound,” whispered Certak, turning it over in his hands, then returning it to Druss.

“Do you believe everything you hear?” said Archytas, sneering.

“Did it happen, Druss?” said Diagoras, before Certak could answer.

“Yes. A long time ago. But it scarce pierced its hide.”

“Was it true they were sacrificing a princess?” asked Certak.

“No. Two small children. But tell me about yourselves,” said Druss. “Wherever I go people ask me the same questions and I get very bored.”

“If you’re that bored,” said Archytas, “why do you take the poet with you on all your adventures?”

“What does that mean?”

“Quite simply that it seems strange for a man as modest as you seem to be to take a saga master with him. Although it proved very convenient.”

“Convenient?”

“Well, he created you, didn’t he? Druss the Legend. Fame and fortune. Surely any wandering warrior with such a companion could have been boosted into legend?”

“I suppose that’s true,” said Druss. “I’ve known a lot of men in my time whose deeds are forgotten, but who were worthy of remembrance in song or tale. I never really thought of it before.”

“How much of Sieben’s great saga is exaggerated?” asked Archytas.

“Oh do shut up,” snapped Diagoras.

“No,” said Druss, lifting his hand. “You’ve no idea how good this is. Always people ask me about the stories, and whenever I tell them they are - shall we say - rounded, they disbelieve me. But it’s true. The stories are not about me. They are based on the truth, but they have grown. I was the seed; they have become the tree. I never met a princess in my life. But to answer your first question. I never took Sieben on my quest. He just came. I think he was bored and wanted to see the world.”

“But did you slay the werebeast in the mountains of Pelucid?” said Certak.

“No. I just killed a lot of men in a lot of battles.”

“Then why do you allow the poems to be sung?” asked Archytas.

“If I could have stopped them I would,” Druss told him. “The first few years of my return were a nightmare. But I’ve got used to it since. People believe what they want to believe. The truth rarely makes a difference. People need heroes, and if they don’t have any, they invent them.”

Orases returned with a bowl of stew and a loaf of black bread. “Have I missed anything?” he asked.

“Not really,” said Druss. “We were just chatting.”

“Druss has been telling us that his legend is all lies,” said Archytas. “It’s been most revealing.”

Druss chuckled with genuine humour and shook his head. “You see,” he told Diagoras and Certak, “people believe what they want to believe, and hear only what they wish to hear.” He glanced across at the tight-lipped Archytas. “Boy, there was a time when your blood would now be staining the walls of this tent. But I was younger then, and headstrong. Now I get no delight from killing puppies. But I am still Druss, so I tell you this, walk softly around me from now on.”

Archytas forced a laugh. “You cause me no concern, old man,” he said. “I don’t think…”

Druss rose swiftly and backhanded him across the face. Archytas hurtled backwards over his chair to lie groaning on the tent floor, his nose smashed and leaking blood.

“No, you don’t think,” said Druss. “Now give me that stew, Orases. It must be getting cold.”

“Welcome to Skeln, Druss,” said Diagoras, grinning.

For three days Druss remained at the camp. Sieben had woken in Delnar’s trent, complaining of chest pains. The regimental surgeon examined him and ordered him to rest, explaining to Druss and Delnar that the poet had suffered a serious spasm of the heart.

“How bad is it?” asked Druss.

The surgeon’s eyes were bleak. “If he rests for a week or two he could be fine. The danger is that the heart might cramp suddenly - and fail. He’s not a young man, and the journey here was hard for him.”

“I see,” said Druss. “Thank you.” He turned to Delnar. “I am sorry, but we must stay.”

“Do not concern yourself, my friend,” responded the Earl, waving his hand. “Despite what I said when you arrived, you are welcome. But, tell me, what happened between you and Archytas? It looks like a mountain fell on his face.”

“His nose tapped my hand,” grunted Druss.

Delnar smiled. “He’s a somewhat loathsome character. But you had better watch out for him. He’s stupid enough to challenge you.”

“No, he won’t,” said Druss. “He may be foolish, but he’s not in love with death. Even a puppy knows to hide from a wolf.”

On the morning of the fourth day, as Druss sat with Sieben, one of the lookout sentries came running headlong into the camp. Within minutes chaos reigned as men raced for their armour. Hearing the commotion, Druss walked from the tent. A young soldier ran by. Druss’s arm snaked out, catching the man’s cloak and wrenching him to a stop.

“What’s going on?” asked Druss.

“The Ventrians are here!” shouted the soldier, tearing himself loose and running towards the pass. Druss swore and strode after him. At the mouth of the pass he halted, staring out over the stream.

Standing in armoured line upon line, their lances gleaming, were the warriors of Gorben, filling the valley from mountainside to mountainside. At the centre of the mass was the tent of the Emperor, and around it were massed the black and silver ranks of the Immortals.

Drenai warriors scurried past him as Druss made his slow way to Delnar’s side.

“I told you he was cunning,” said Druss. “He must have sent a token force to Penrac, knowing it would draw our army south.”

“Yes. But what now?”

“You’re not left with many choices,” said Druss.

“True.”

The Drenai warriors spread out across the narrow centre of the pass in three ranks, their round shields glinting in the morning sun, their white horsehair-crested helms flowing in the breeze.

“How many here are veterans?” asked Druss.

“About half. I’ve placed them at the front.”

“How long will it take a rider to reach Penrac?”

“I’ve sent a man. The army should be back in about ten days.”

“You think we’ve got ten days?” asked Druss.

“No. But, as you say, there aren’t too many choices. What do you think Gorben will do?”

“First he’ll talk. He’ll ask you to surrender. You’d better request a few hours to make up your mind. Then he’ll send the Panthians in. They’re an undisciplined bunch but they fight like devils. We should see them off. Their wicker shields and stabbing spears are no match for Drenai armour. After that he’ll test all his troops on us…”

“The Immortals?”

“Not until the end, when we’re weary and finished.”

“It’s a gloomy picture,” said Delnar.

“It’s a bitch,” agreed Druss.

“Will you stand with us, axeman?”

“Did you expect me to leave?”

Delnar chuckled suddenly. “Why shouldn’t you? I wish I could.”

In the first Drenai line Diagoras sheathed his sword, wiping his sweating palm on his red cloak. “There are enough of them,” he said.

Beside him Certak nodded. “Masterly understatement. They look like they could run right over us.”

“We’ll have to surrender, won’t we?” whispered Orases from behind them, blinking sweat from his eyes.

“Somehow I don’t think that’s likely,” said Certak. “Though I admit it’s a welcome thought.”

A rider on a black stallion forded the stream and galloped towards the Drenai line. Delnar walked through the ranks, Druss beside him, and waited.

The rider wore the black and silver armour of a general of the Immortals. Reining in before the two men, he leaned forward on the pommel of his saddle.

“Druss?” he said. “Is that you?”

Druss studied the gaunt features, the silver-streaked dark hair hanging in two braids.

“Welcome to Skeln, Bodasen,” answered the axeman.

“I’m sorry to find you here. I was meaning to ride for Skoda as soon as we took Drenan. Is Rowena well?”

“Yes. And you?”

“As you see me. Fit and well. Yourself?”

“I’m not complaining.”

“And Sieben?”

“He’s asleep in a tent.”

“He always knew when to avoid battles,” said Bodasen, forcing a smile. “And that’s what this is looking like unless commonsense prevails. Are you the leader?” he asked Delnar.

“I am. What message do you bring?”

“Merely this. Tomorrow morning my Emperor will ride through this pass. He would consider it a courtesy if you could remove your men from his path.”

“We will think on it,” said Delnar.

“I would advise you to think well,” said Bodasen, turning his mount. “I’ll be seeing you, Druss. Take care!”

“You too.”

Bodasen spurred the stallion back towards the stream and on through the Panthian ranks.

Druss beckoned Delnar aside, away from the men. “It’s pointless standing here all day staring at them,” he said. “Why don’t you order them to stand down and we’ll send half of them back to bring up some blankets and fuel?”

“You don’t think they’ll attack today?”

“No. Why should they? They know we’ll not be reinforced tonight. Tomorrow will come soon enough.” Druss tramped back to the camp, stopping in to see the poet. Sieben was asleep. Druss pulled up a chair and stared down at the poet’s lined face. Uncharacteristically he stroked the balding head. Sieben opened his eyes.

“Oh it’s you,” he said. “What’s all the fuss about?”

“The Ventrians tricked us. They’re on the other side of the mountain.”

Sieben swore softly. Druss chuckled. “You just lie here, poet, and I’ll tell you all about it once we’ve sent them running.”

“The Immortals are here too?” asked Sieben.

“Of course.”

“Wonderful. A nice little outing you promised me. A few speeches. And what do we get? Another War.”

“I saw Bodasen. He’s looking well.”

“Marvellous. Maybe after he’s killed us we can have a drink together and chat about old times.”

“You take things too seriously, poet. Rest now, and later I’ll have some men carry you up to the pass. You’d hate to miss the action, now, wouldn’t you?”

“Couldn’t you get them to carry me all the way back to Skoda?”

“Later,” grinned Druss. “Anyway, I must be getting back.”

The axeman walked swiftly up the mountain slopes and sat on a boulder at the mouth of the pass, gazing intently at the enemy camp.

“What are you thinking about?” asked Delnar, moving up to join him.

“I was remembering something I told an old friend a long time ago.”

“What was that?”

“If you want to win: Attack.”

Bodasen dismounted before the Emperor and knelt, pressing his forehead to the earth. Then he rose. From a distance the Ventrian looked as he always had, powerful, black-bearded and keen of eye. But he could no longer stand close inspection. His hair and beard showed the unhealthy sheen of heavy, dark dye, his painted face glowed with unnatural colour and his eyes saw treachery in every shadow. His followers, even those like Bodasen who had served him for decades, knew never to stare into his face, addressing all their remarks to the gilded griffin on his breastplate. No one was allowed to approach him bearing a weapon, and he had not granted a private audience to anyone in years. Always he wore armour - even, it was said, when he slept. His food was tasted by slaves, and he had taken to wearing gloves of soft leather, in the belief that poison might be spread on the outside of his golden goblets.

Bodasen waited for permission to speak, glancing up swiftly to read the expression on the Emperor’s face. Gorben was staring moodily.

“Was that Druss?” he asked.

“Aye, my lord.”

“So even he has turned against me.”

“He is a Drenai, my lord.”

“Do you dispute with me, Bodasen?”

“No, sire. Of course not.”

“Good. I want Druss brought before me for judgement. Such treachery must be answered with swift justice. You understand?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Will the Drenai give us the way?”

“I think not, sire. But it will not take long to clear the path. Even with Druss there. Shall I order the men to stand down and prepare camp?”

“No. Let them stay in ranks for a while. Let the Drenai see their power and their strength.”

“Yes, sire.”

Bodasen backed away.

“Are you still loyal?” asked the Emperor, suddenly.

Bodasen’s mouth was dry. “As I have always been, lord.”

“Yet Druss was your friend.”

“Even though that is true, sire, I will see him dragged before you in chains. Or his head presented to you, should he be slain in the defence.”

The Emperor nodded, then turned his painted face to stare up at the pass. “I want them dead. All dead,” he whispered.

In the cool of the pre-dawn haze the Drenai formed their lines, each warrior bearing a rounded shield and a short stabbing sword. Their sabres had been put aside, for in close formation a swinging longsword could be as deadly to a comrade standing close as to an enemy bearing down. The men were nervous, constantly rechecking breastplate straps, or discovering the bronze greaves protecting their lower legs were too tight, too loose, too anything. Cloaks were removed and left in tight red rolls by the mountain wall behind the ranks. Both Druss and Delnar knew this was the time a man’s courage was under the greatest strain. Gorben could do many things. The dice were in his hands. All the Drenai could do was wait.

“Do you think he’ll attack immediately the sun comes up?” asked Delnar.

Druss shook his head. “I don’t think so. He’ll let the fear work for about an hour. But then again - you can never tell with him.”

The two hundred men in the front rank shared the same emotions now, with varying intensity. Pride, for they had been singled out as the best; fear, for they would be the first to die. Some had regrets. Many had not written home for weeks, others had left friends and relatives with bitter words. Many were the thoughts.

Druss made his way to the centre of the first line, calling for Diagoras and Certak to stand on either side of him.

“Move away from me a little,” he said. “Give me swinging room.” The line shuffled apart. Druss loosened his shoulders, stretching the muscles of his arms and back. The sky lightened. Druss cursed. The disadvantage for the defenders - apart from the numbers of the enemy - was that the sun rose in their eyes.

Across the stream the black-skinned Pahthians sharpened their spears. There was little fear among them. The ivory-skins facing them were few in number. They would be swept away like antelope before a veldt blaze. Gorben waited until the sun cleared the peaks, then gave the order to attack. The Panthians surged to their feet, a swelling roar of hatred rising from their throats, a wall of sound that hurtled up into the pass, washing over the defenders.

“Listen to that!” bellowed Druss. “That’s not strength you hear. That’s the sound of terror!”

Five thousand warriors raced towards the pass, their feet drumming a savage beat on the rocky slopes, echoing high into the peaks.

Druss hawked and spat. Then he began to laugh, a rich, full sound that brought a few chuckles from the men around him.

“Gods, I’ve missed this,” he shouted. “Come on, you cowsons!” he yelled at the Panthians. “Move yourselves!”

Delnar, at the centre of the second line, smiled and drew his sword.

With the enemy a bare hundred paces distant, the men of the third line looked to Archytas. He raised his arm. The men dropped their shields and stooped, rising with barbed javelins. Each man had five of them at his feet.

The Panthians were almost upon them.

“Now!” yelled Archytas.

Arms flew forward and two hundred shafts of death hurtled into the black mass.

“Again!” bellowed Archytas.

The front ranks of the advancing horde disappeared screaming, to be trampled by the men behind them. The charge faltered as the tribesmen tripped and fell over fallen comrades. The mountain walls, narrowing like an hour-glass, slowed the attack still further.

Then the lines clashed.

A spear lunged for Druss. Blocking it with his axe blades, he dragged a back-hand cut that sheared through the wicker shield and the flesh beyond. The man grunted as Snaga clove through his ribcage. Druss tore the weapon clear, parried another thrust and hammered his axe into his opponent’s face. Beside him Certak blocked a spear with his shield, expertly sliding his gladius into a gleaming black chest. A spear sliced his upper thigh, but there was no pain. He counter-thrust, and his attacker fell across the growing pile of corpses in front of the line.

The Panthians now found themselves leaping upon the bodies of their comrades in their desperation to breach the line. The floor of the pass became slippery with blood, but the Drenai held.

A tall warrior threw aside his wicker shield and hurdled the wall of dead, spear raised. He hurtled towards Druss. Snaga buried itself in his chest, but the weight of the man bore Druss back, tearing his axe from his hands. A second man leapt at him. Druss turned aside the thrusting spear with his mail-covered gauntlets, and smashed a cruel punch to the man’s jaw. As the warrior crumpled Druss grabbed him by the throat and groin and hoisted the body above his head, hurling him back over the corpse wall into the faces of the advancing warriors. Twisting, he wrenched his axe clear of the first man’s body.

“Come on, my lads,” he bellowed. “Time to send them home!”

Leaping up on the corpses, he cut left and right, opening up a space in the Panthian ranks. Diagoras couldn’t believe his eyes. He swore. Then leapt to join him.

The Drenai advanced, clambering over the Panthian dead, their swords red, their eyes grim.

At the centre the tribesmen struggled first to overcome the madman with the axe, then to get back from him, as other Drenai warriors joined him.

Fear flashed through their ranks like a plague.

Within minutes they were streaming back across the valley floor.

Druss led the warriors back into position. His jerkin was stained with blood, and his beard spotted with crimson. Opening his shirt, he removed a towel and wiped his sweating face. Doffing his helm of black and silver, he scratched his head.

“Well, lads,” he called out, his deep voice echoing in the crags, “how does it feel to have earned your pay?”

“They’re coming again!” someone shouted.

Druss’ voice cut through the rising fear. “Of course they are,” he bellowed. “They don’t know when they’re beaten. Front rank fall back, second rank stand to. Let’s spread the glory!”

Druss remained with the front line, Diagoras and Certak alongside him.

By dusk they had beaten off four charges for the loss of only forty men - thirty dead, ten wounded.

The Panthians had lost over eight hundred men.

It was a macabre scene that night as the Drenai sat around small campfires, the dancing flames throwing weird shadows across the wall of corpses in the pass making it seem as if the bodies writhed in the darkness. Delnar ordered the men to gather all the wicker shields they could find and recover as many javelins and spears as were still usable.

Towards midnight many of the veterans were asleep, but others found the excitement of the day too fresh, and they sat in small groups, talking in low tones.

Delnar walked from group to group, sitting with them, joking and lifting their spirits. Druss slept in the tent of Sieben, high in the mouth of the pass. The poet had watched part of the day’s action from his bed, and fallen asleep during the long afternoon.

Diagoras, Orases and Certak sat with half a dozen other men as Delnar approached and joined them.

“How are you feeling?” asked the Earl.

The men smiled. What answer could they give?

“Can I ask a question, sir?” asked Orases.

“Certainly.”

“How is it that Druss has stayed alive so long? I mean, he has no defence to speak of.”

“It’s a good point,” said the Earl, doffing his helm and running his fingers through his hair, enjoying the cool of the night. “The reason is contained in your question. It is because he has no defence. That terrible axe rarely leaves a man with a non-mortal wound. To kill Druss you have to be prepared to die. No, not just prepared. You would have to attack Druss in the sure knowledge that he will kill you. Now, most men want to live. You understand?”

“Not really, sir,” admitted Orases.

“Do you know the one kind of warrior no one wants to face?” asked Delnar.

“No, sir.”

“The baresark, sometimes called the berserker, a man whose killing frenzy makes him oblivious to pain and uncaring about life. He throws his armour away and attacks the enemy, cutting and killing until he himself is cut to pieces. I saw a baresark once who had lost an arm. As the blood spewed from the stump he aimed it in the faces of his attackers and carried on fighting until he dropped.

“No one wants to fight such a man. Now, Druss is even more formidable than the berserker. He has all the virtues, but his killing frenzy is controlled. He can think clearly. And when you add the man’s awesome strength he becomes a veritable machine of destruction.”

“But surely a chance thrust amid the melee,” said Diagoras. “A sudden slip on a pool of blood. He could die as well as any other man.”

“Yes,” admitted Delnar. “I do not say that he won’t die in such a way; only that the odds are all with Druss. Most of you saw him today. Those who fought alongside him had no time to study his technique, but others of you caught a glimpse of the Legend. He’s always balanced, always moving. His eyes are never still. His peripheral vision is incredible. He can sense danger even amid chaos. Today a very brave Panthian warrior hurled himself on the axe, dragging it from Druss’s hand. A second warrior followed. Did anyone see it?”

“I did,” said Orases.

“But you didn’t really learn from it. The first Panthian died to remove Druss’s weapon. The second was to engage him while the others breached the line. Had they come through then, our force might have been split and pushed back into the walls of the mountain. Druss saw that instantly. That’s why, although he could have just knocked his attacker senseless and retrieved his axe, he hurled the man back into the breach. Now think on this: In that instant Druss had seen the danger, formulated a plan of action, and carried it out. More even than this. He retrieved the axe and took the battle to the enemy. That’s what broke them. Druss had judged exactly the right moment to attack. It’s the instinct of the born warrior.”

“But how did he know we would follow him?” asked Diagoras. “He could have been cut to pieces.”

“Even in this he was confident. That’s why he asked you and Certak to stand alongside him. Now that’s a compliment. He knew you would respond, and that others who might not follow him would follow you.”

“He has told you this?” asked Certak.

The Earl chuckled. “No. In a way Druss would be as surprised to hear it as you are. His actions are not reasoned. As I said, they are instinctive. If we live through this you will learn much.”

“Do you think we will?” asked Orases.

“If we are strong,” lied Delnar smoothly, surprised at himself.

The Panthians came again at dawn, creeping up through the pass as the Drenai waited, swords drawn. But they did not attack. Under the bewildered eyes of the defenders, they hauled away the bodies of their comrades.

It was a bizarre scene. Delnar ordered the Drenai back twenty paces to make room for the work, and the warriors waited. Delnar sheathed his sword and moved alongside Druss in the front line.

“What do you think?”

“I think they’re preparing the ground for chariots,” said Druss.

“Horses will never attack a solid line. They’ll pull up short,” the Earl pointed out.

“Take a look yonder,” muttered the axeman.

On the far side of the stream, the Ventrian army had parted, making way for the gleaming bronze chariots of the Tantrians. With their huge wheels bearing sickle blades, serrated and deadly, each chariot was drawn by two horses and manned by a driver and a spear carrier.

For an hour the clearing of bodies continued, while the chariots formed a line in the valley below. As the Panthians withdrew, Delnar ordered forward thirty men carrying the wicker shields retrieved from the battle the day before. The shields were spread in a line across the pass and doused with lantern oil.

Delnar placed his hand on Druss’s shoulder. “Take the line fifty paces forward, beyond the shields. When they attack, break formation left and right and make for the cover of the rocks. Once they are through we will fire the shields. Hopefully that will stop them. The second rank will engage the chariots while your line holds the following infantry.”

“Sounds good,” said Druss.

“If it doesn’t work we won’t try it again,” said Delnar.

Druss grinned.

Along the line of chariots the drivers were pulling silken hoods over the eyes of the horses. Druss led his two hundred men forward, hurdling the wall of wicker shields, Diagoras, Certak and Archytas beside him.

The thunder of hooves on the valley floor echoed through the crags as two hundred charioteers whipped their horses into the gallop.

With the chariots almost upon them Druss bellowed the order to break ranks. As men raced to the safety of the mountain walls on either side, the enemy thundered on towards the second line. Flaming torches were flung upon the wall of oil-soaked wicker shields. Black smoke billowed instantly, followed by dancing flames. The breeze carried the smoke towards the east, burning the flaring nostrils of the hooded horses. Whinnying their terror, they tried to turn, ignoring the biting whips of the charioteers.

Instantly all was confusion. The second line of chariots tore into the first, horses falling, vehicles overturning, hurling screaming men to the jagged rocks.

And into the milling chaos leapt the Drenai, hurdling the dying flames to fall upon the Ventrian spearmen, whose lances were useless at such close quarters.

Gorben, from his vantage point a half-mile away, ordered a legion of infantry into the fray.

Druss and the two hundred Drenai swordsmen re-formed across the pass, locking shields against the new attack, presenting a glittering wall of blades to the silver-armoured infantry.

Crushing the skull of one man and gutting a second, Druss stepped back, casting a lightning glance to left and right.

The line held.

More Drenai fell in this attack than on the previous day, but their numbers were few compared with the losses suffered by the Ventrians.

Only a handful of chariots burst back through the Drenai front line, there to crash and cut a path through their own infantry in their desire to be free of the pass.

Hour upon bloody hour the battle continued, savagely fought by both sides, with no thought of quarter.

The silver-clad Ventrian infantry continued to press their attack, but by dusk their efforts lacked conviction and weight.

Furious, Gorben ordered their general forward into the pass.

“Lead them hard, or you’ll beg to be allowed to die,” he promised.

The general’s body fell within the hour, and the infantry slunk back across the stream in the gathering gloom of twilight.

Ignoring the dancing troupe performing before him, Gorben lay back on the silk-covered couch, conversing in low tones with Bodasen. The Emperor wore full battle-dress, and behind him stood the massively muscled Panthian bodyguard who for the last five years had been Gorben’s executioner. He killed with his hands, sometimes by strangling his victims slowly, at other times gouging his thumbs through the eye sockets of the hapless prisoners. All executions were performed before the Emperor, and scarcely a week passed without such a grisly scene.

The Panthian had once killed a man by crushing his skull between his hands, to the applause of Gorben and his courtiers.

Bodasen was sickened by it all, but he was caught within a web of his own making. Through the years, naked ambition had driven him to the heights of power. He now commanded the Immortals and was, under Gorben, the most powerful man in Ventria. But the position was perilous. Gorben’s paranoia was such that few of his generals survived for long, and Bodasen had begun to feel the Emperor’s eyes upon him.

Tonight he had invited Gorben to his tent, promising him an evening of entertainment, but the king was in a surly, argumentative mood, and Bodasen trod warily.

“You thought the Panthians and the chariots would fail, did you not?” asked Gorben. The question was loaded with menace. If the answer was yes, the Emperor would ask why Bodasen had not stated his view. Was he not the Emperor’s military advisor? What was the use of an advisor who gave no advice? If the answer was no, then his military judgement would prove to be lacking.

“We have fought many wars over the years, my lord,” he said. “In most of them we have suffered reverses. You have always said “Unless we try we will never know how to succeed”.”

“You think we should send in my Immortals?” asked Gorben. Always before the Emperor had called them your Immortals. Bodasen licked his lips and smiled.

“There is no doubt they could clear the pass swiftly. The Drenai are fighting well. They are disciplined. But they know they cannot withstand the Immortals. But that decision is yours alone, my lord. Only you have the divine mastery of tactics. Men like myself are mere reflections of your greatness.”

“Then where are the men who can think for themselves?” snapped the Emperor.

“I must be honest with you, sire,” said Bodasen quickly. “You will not find such a man.”

“Why?”

“You seek men who can think as rapidly as you yourself, with your own penetrating insight. Such men do not exist. You are supremely gifted, sire. The gods would visit such wisdom on only one man in ten generations.”

“You speak truly,” said Gorben. “But there is little joy in being a man apart, separated from his fellows by his god-given gifts. I am hated, you know,” he whispered, eyes darting to the sentries beyond the tent entrance.

“There will always be those that are jealous, sire,” said Bodasen.

“Are you jealous of me, Bodasen?”

“Yes, sire.”

Gorben rolled to his side, eyes gleaming. “Speak on.”

“In all the years I have served and loved you, lord, I have always wished I could be more like you. For then I could have served you better. A man would be a fool not to be jealous of you. But he is insane if he hates you because you are what he never can be.”

“Well said. You are an honest man. One of the few I can trust. Not like Druss, who promised to serve me, and now thwarts my destiny. I want him dead, my general. I want his head brought to me.”

“It shall be done, sire,” said Bodasen.

Gorben leaned back, gazing around him at the tent and its contents. “Your quarters are almost as lavish as my own,” he said.

“Only because they are filled with gifts from you, sire,” answered Bodasen swiftly.

Faces and armour blackened by dirt mixed with oil, Druss and fifty swordsmen silently waded the narrow stream under a moonless sky. Praying the clouds would not part, Druss led the men single-file towards the eastern bank, axe in hand, blackened shield held before him. Once ashore Druss squatted at the centre of the small group, pointing towards two dozing sentries by a dying fire. Diagoras and two others ghosted from the group, approaching the sentries silently, daggers in hand. The men died without a sound. Removing torches hastily constructed from the wicker shields of Panthian warriors, Druss and the soldiers approached the sentries’ fire.

Stepping over the bodies, Druss lit his torch and ran towards the nearest tent. His men followed suit, racing from tent to tent, until flames leapt thirty feet into the night sky.

Suddenly all was chaos, as screaming men burst from blazing canopies to fall before the swords of the Drenai. Druss raced ahead, cutting a crimson path through the confused Ventrians, his eyes fixed on the tent ahead, its glowing griffin outlined in the towering flames. Close behind came Certak and a score of warriors bearing torches. Wrenching open the flaps, Druss leapt inside.

“Damn,” he grunted, “Gorben’s not here! Curse it!”

Setting torch to silk, Druss shouted for his men to regroup, then led them back towards the stream. No concerted effort was made to stop them, as Ventrians milled in confusion, many of them half-clothed, others filling helmets with water, forming human chains to battle the fierce inferno racing on the wings of the wind throughout the Ventrian camp.

A small group of Immortals, swords in hand, collided with Druss as he raced towards the stream. Snaga leapt forward, braining the first. The second died as Diagoras back-handed a slash across his throat. The battle was brief and bloody, but the element of surprise was with the Drenai. Bursting through the front line of swordsmen, Druss crashed his axe through one man’s side before reversing a slashing swipe across another’s shoulder.

Bodasen ran from his tent, sword in hand. Swiftly gathering a small group of Immortals, he raced past the flames towards the battle. A Drenai warrior loomed before him. The man aimed a thrust at Bodasen’s unprotected body. The Ventrian parried and launched a devastating riposte that tore open the man’s throat. Bodasen stepped over the body and led his men forward.

Druss killed two men, then bellowed for the Drenai to fall back.

The pounding of feet from behind caused him to swivel and face the new force. With the fire behind them Druss could not make out faces.

Nearby Archytas despatched a warrior, then saw Druss standing alone.

Without thinking, he raced towards the Immortals. In that instant Druss charged. His axe rose and fell, shearing through armour and bone. Diagoras and Certak joined him, with four other Drenai warriors. The battle was brief. Only one Ventrian broke clear, hurling himself to the right and rolling to his feet behind Archytas. The tall Drenai turned on his heel and engaged the man. Archytas grinned as their swords met. The man was old, though skilful, and no match for the young Drenai. Their swords glittered in the firelight: parry, riposte, counter, thrust and block. Suddenly the Ventrian seemed to trip. Archytas leapt forward. His opponent ducked and rolled to his feet in one flowing movement, his sword ramming into Archytas’ groin.

“You live and learn, boy,” hissed Bodasen, dragging his blade clear. Bodasen turned as more Immortals ran forward. Gorben wanted Druss’s head. Tonight he would give it to him.

Druss wrenched his axe from a man’s body and sprinted for the stream and the relative sanctuary of the pass.

A warrior leapt into his path. Snaga sang through the air, smashing the man’s sword to shards. A back-hand cut shattered his ribs. As Druss passed him, the man reached out, grabbing his shoulder. In the gleam of the flames, the axeman saw it was Bodasen. The dying Immortal general gripped Druss’s jerkin, trying to slow him. Druss kicked him aside and ran on.

Bodasen fell heavily and rolled, watching the burly figure of the axeman and his companions fording the stream.

The Ventrian’s vision swam. He closed his eyes. Weariness settled on him like a cloak. Memories danced in his mind. He heard a great noise like the crashing of the sea, and saw again the corsair ship bearing down upon them, gliding out of the past. Once more he raced with Druss to board her, carrying the fight to the aft deck.

Damn! He should have realised Druss would never change.

Attack. Always attack.

He opened his eyes, blinking to clear his vision. Druss was safely on the other side of the stream now, leading the warriors back to the Drenai line.

Bodasen tried to move, but agony lanced him. Carefully he probed the wound in his side, his sticky fingers feeling the broken ribs and the rush of arterial blood from the gaping gash.

It was over.

No more fear. No more insanity. No more bowing and scraping to the painted madman.

In a way he was relieved.

His whole life had been an anticlimax after that battle with Druss against the corsairs. In that one towering moment he had been alive, standing with Druss against…

They brought his body to the Emperor in the pink light of dawn.

And Gorben wept.

Around them the camp was a shambles. Gorben’s generals stood beside the throne, uneasy and silent. Gorben covered the body with his own cloak and dried his eyes on a white linen towel. Then he turned his attention to the man kneeling before him, flanked by Immortal guards.

“Bodasen dead. My tent destroyed. My camp in flames. And you, you pathetic wretch, were the officer of the guard. A score of men invade my camp, killing my beloved general, and you still live. Explain yourself!”

“My lord, I sat with you in Bodasen’s tent - by your order.”

“So now it is my fault the camp was attacked!”

“No, sire…”

“No, sire,” mimicked Gorben. “I should think not. Your sentries were sleeping. Now they are dead. Do you not think it fitting for you to join them?”

“Sire?”

“Join them, I say. Take your blade and slice your veins.”

The officer drew his ornamental dagger, reversed it, then plunged the blade into his belly. For a moment there was no movement. Then the man began to scream and writhe. Gorben drew his sword, slashing the blade through the man’s neck.

“He couldn’t even do that right,” said Gorben.

Druss entered Sieben’s tent and hurled his axe to the floor. The poet was awake, but lying silently watching the stars when Druss arrived. The axeman sat down on the floor, his great head slumped to his chest, staring at his hands, clenching and unclenching his fists. The poet sensed his despair. He struggled to sit up, the ache in his chest becoming a stabbing pain. He grunted. Druss’s head came up, his back straightened.

“How are you feeling?” asked Druss.

“Fine. I take it the raid failed?”

“Gorben was not in his tent.”

“What is wrong, Druss?”

The axeman’s head slumped forward and he didn’t answer. Sieben climbed from the bed and made his way to Druss, sitting beside him.

“Come along, old horse, tell me.”

“I killed Bodasen. He came at me out of shadows and I cut him down.”

Sieben put his arm on Druss’s shoulder. “What can I say?”

“You could tell me why - why it had to be me.”

“I can’t tell you that. I wish I could. But you did not travel across the ocean, seeking to kill him, Druss. He came here. With an army.”

“I only ever had a few friends in my life,” said Druss. “Eskodas died in my home. I’ve killed Bodasen. And I’ve brought you here to die for a pile of rock in a forgotten pass. I’m so tired, poet. I should never have come here.”

Druss rose and left the tent. Dipping his hands in the water barrel outside, he washed his face. His back was painful, especially under the shoulder-blade where the spear had cut him so many years before. A swollen vein in his right leg nagged at him.

“I don’t know if you can hear me, Bodasen,” he whispered, staring up at the stars, “but I am sorry it had to be me. You were a good friend in happier days, and a man to walk the mountains with.”

Returning to the tent, he found Sieben had fallen asleep in the chair. Druss lifted him gently and carried him to his bed, covering him with a thick blanket. “You’re worn out, poet,” he said. He felt for Sieben’s pulse. It was ragged but strong. “Stay with me, Sieben,” he told him. “I’ll get you home.”

As the dawn’s rays bathed the peaks Druss walked slowly down the rocky slope to stand again with the Drenai line.

For eight terrible days Skeln became a charnel house, littered with swelling corpses and the foul stench of putrefaction. Gorben threw legion after legion up into the pass, only to see them stumble back defeated and dejected. The dwindling band of defenders was held together by the indomitable courage of the black-garbed axeman, whose terrifying skill dismayed the Ventrians. Some said he was a demon, others a god of war. Old tales were recalled.

The Chaos Warrior walked again in the stories told around Ventrian camp-fires.

Only the Immortals stayed aloof from the fears. They knew it would fall to them to clear the pass, and they knew it would not be easy.

On the eighth night Gorben at last gave in to the insistent demands of his generals. Time was running out. The way had to be taken tomorrow lest the Drenai army trap them in this cursed bay.

The order was given and the Immortals honed their swords.

At dawn they rose silently, forming their black and silver line across the stream, staring stonily ahead at the three hundred men who stood between them and the Sentran Plain.

Tired were the Drenai, bone-weary and hollow-eyed.

Abadai, the new general of the Immortals, walked forward and lifted his sword in silent salute to the Drenai, as was the Immortal custom. The blade swept down and the line moved forward. To the rear three drummers began the doleful marching beat, and the Immortals’ swords flashed into the air.

Grim were the faces as the cream of Ventria’s army slowly marched towards the Drenai.

Druss, bearing a shield now, watched the advance, his cold blue eyes showing no expression, his jaw set, his mouth a tight line. He stretched the muscles of his shoulders, arid took a deep breath.

This was the test. This was the day of days.

The spear-point of Gorben’s destiny against the resolution of the Drenai.

He knew the Immortals were damned fine warriors, but they fought now for glory alone.

The Drenai, on the other hand, were proud men, and sons of proud men, descended from a race of warriors. They were fighting for their homes, their wives, their sons, and sons yet unborn. For a free land and the right to make their own way, run their own lives, fulfil the destiny of a free race. Egel and Karnak had fought for this dream, and countless more like them down through the centuries.

Behind the axeman, Earl Delnar watched the nearing enemy line. He was impressed by their discipline and, in a strangely detached way, found himself admiring them. He transferred his gaze to the axeman. Without him they could never have held this long. He was like the anchor of a ship in a storm, holding the prow into the wind, allowing it to ride clear and face the might of the elements without being broken upon the rocks or overturned by the power of the sea. Strong men drew courage from his presence. For he was a constant in a world of shifting change - a colossal force that could be trusted to endure.

As the Immortals loomed ever nearer, Delnar could feel the fear spreading among the men. The line shifted as shields were gripped more firmly. The Earl smiled. Time for you to speak, Druss, he thought.

With the instinct of a lifetime of war, Druss obliged. Raising his axe he bellowed at the advancing Immortals.

“Come in and die, you whoresons! I am Druss and this is death!”

Rowena was picking flowers in the small garden behind the house when the pain struck her, cutting beneath her ribs through to her back. Her legs collapsed beneath her and she toppled into the blooms. Pudri saw her from the meadow gate and ran to her side, shouting for help. Sieben’s wife, Niobe, came running from the meadow and between them they lifted the unconscious woman and carried her into the house. Pudri forced a little foxglove powder into her mouth, then poured water into a clay goblet. Holding it to her lips, he pinched her nostrils, forcing her to swallow.

But this time the pain did not pass, and Rowena was carried upstairs to her bed while Niobe rode to the village for the physician.

Pudri sat by Rowena’s bedside, his lined leathery face sunken and filled with concern, his large dark eyes moist with tears.

“Please do not die, lady,” he whispered. “Please.”

Rowena floated from her body and opened her spirit eyes, gazing down with pity at the matronly form in her bed. She saw the wrinkled face and greying hair, the dark rings below the eyes. Was this her? Was this tired, worn-out shell the Rowena that had been taken to Ventria years before?

And poor Pudri, so shrunken and old. Poor devoted Pudri.

Rowena felt the pull of the Source. She closed her eyes and thought of Druss.

On the wings of the wind, the Rowena of yesterday’s dreams soared above the farm, tasting the sweetness of the air, enjoying the freedom of those born to the sky. Lands swept below her, green and fertile, dappled with the gold of cornfields. Rivers became satin ribbons, seas rippling lakes, cities peopled with insects scurrying without purpose.

The world shrank until it became a plate studded with gems of blue and white, and then a stone, rounded as if by the sea, and finally a tiny jewel. She thought of Druss once more.

“On, not yet!” she begged. “Let me see him once. Just once.”

Colours swam before her eyes, and she fell, twisting and spinning through the clouds. The land below her was gold and green, the cornfields and meadows of the Sentran Plain, rich and verdant. To the east it seemed as if a giant’s cloak had been carelessly thrown on to the land, grey and lifeless, the mountains of Skeln merely folds in the cloth. Closer she flew until she hovered over the pass, gazing down on the embattled armies.

Druss was not hard to find.

He stood, as always, at the centre of the carnage, his murderous axe cutting and killing.

Sadness touched her then, a sorrow so deep it was like a pain in her soul.

“Goodbye, my love,” she said.

And turned her face to the heavens.

The Immortals hurled themselves on the Drenai line, and the clash of steel on steel sounded above the insistent drums. Druss hammered Snaga into a bearded face, then sidestepped a murderous thrust, disembowelling his assailant. A spear cut his face, a sword-blade ripped a shallow wound in his shoulder.

Forced back a pace, Druss dug his heel into the ground, his bloody axe slashing into the black and silver ranks before him.

Slowly the weight of the Immortals forced back the Drenai line.

A mighty blow to Druss’s shield split it down the middle. Hurling it from him, the axeman gripped Snaga with both hands, slashing a red swathe through the enemy. Anger turned to fury within him.

Druss’s eyes blazed, power flooding his tired, aching muscles.

The Drenai had been pushed back nearly twenty paces. Ten more and the pass widened. They would not be able to hold.

Druss’s mouth stretched in a death’s-head grin. The line was bending like a bow on either side of him, but the axeman himself was immovable. The Immortals pushed towards him, but were cut down with consummate ease. Strength flowed through him.

He began to laugh.

It was a terrible sound, and it filled the veins of the enemy with ice. Druss lashed Snaga into the face of a bearded Immortal. The man was catapulted into his fellows. The axeman leapt forward, cleaving Snaga into the chest of the next warrior. Then he hammered left and right. Men fell back from his path, opening a space in the ranks. Bellowing his rage to the sky, Druss charged into the mass. Certak and Diagoras followed.

It was suicidal, yet the Drenai formed a wedge, Druss at the head, and sheared into the Ventrians.

The giant axeman was unstoppable. Warriors threw themselves at him from every side, but his axe flashed like quicksilver. A young soldier called Eericetes, only accepted into the Immortals a month before, saw Druss bearing down on him. Fear rose like bile in his throat. Dropping his sword he turned, pushing at the man behind him.

“Back,” he shouted. “Get back!”

The men made way for him, and the cry was taken up by others, thinking it was an order from the officers.

“Back! Back to the stream!” The cry swept through the ranks and the Immortals turned, streaming towards the Ventrian camp.

From his throne Gorben watched in horror as his men waded the shallow stream, disorganised and bewildered.

His eyes flicked up to the pass, where the axeman stood waving Snaga in the air.

Druss’s voice floated down to him, echoing from the crags.

“Where is your legend now, you eastern sons of bitches?”

Abadai, blood streaming from a shallow cut in his forehead, approached the Emperor, dropping to his knees, head bowed.

“How did it happen?” demanded Gorben.

“I don’t know, sire. One moment we were pushing them back, and then the axeman went mad, charging our line. We had them. We really had them. But somehow the cry went up to fall back, and then all was chaos.”

In the pass Druss swiftly honed the dulled blades of his axe.

“We beat the Immortals,” said Diagoras, slapping Druss on the shoulder. “By all the gods in Missael, we beat the damned Immortals.”

“They’ll be back, lad. And very soon. You’d better pray the army is moving at speed.”

With Snaga razor-edged once more, Druss looked to his wounds. The cut on his face stung like the devil, but the flow of blood had ceased. His shoulder was more of a problem, but he strapped it as best he could. If they survived the day, he would stitch it that night. There were several smaller cuts to his legs and arms but these had congealed and sealed themselves.

A shadow fell across him. He looked up. Sieben stood there, wearing breastplate and helm.

“How do I look?” asked the poet.

“Ridiculous. What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m getting into the thick of it, Druss old horse. And don’t think you can stop me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“You’re not going to tell me I’m stupid?”

Druss stood and grabbed his friend’s shoulders. “These have been good years, poet. The best I could have wished for. There are few treasures in a man’s life. One of them comes with the knowledge that a man has a friend to stand beside him when the hour grows dark. And let’s be honest, Sieben… It couldn’t get much darker, could it?”

“Now you come to mention it, Druss my dear, it does seem a tiny bit hopeless.”

“Well, everybody has to die sometime,” said Druss. “When death comes for you, spit in his eye, poet.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“You always did.”

The drums sounded again and the Immortals massed. Fury was in their eyes now, and they glared balefully at the defenders. They would not be turned back. Not by Druss. Not by the pitiful two hundred facing them.

From the first clash the Drenai line was forced back. Even Druss, needing room to swing his axe, could find space only by retreating a pace. Then another. Then another. He battled on, a tireless machine, bloody and bloodied, Snaga rising in a crimson spray and falling with pitiless efficiency.

Time and again he rallied the Drenai. But ever on came the Immortals, striding across the bodies of their dead, their eyes grim, their mood resolute.

Suddenly the Drenai line broke, and the battle degenerated in moments to a series of skirmishes, small circles of warriors forming shield rings amid the black and silver sea filling the pass.

The Sentran Plain lay open to the conqueror.

The battle was lost.

But the Immortals were desperate to erase the memory of defeat. They blocked the pathway to the west, determined to kill the last of the defenders.

From his vantage point on the eastern hill Gorben threw down his sceptre in fury, turning on Abadai.

“They have won. Why are they not pushing on? Their bloodlust leaves them blocking the pass!”

Abadai could not believe his eyes. With time a desperate enemy waiting to betray them, the Immortals were unknowingly continuing the work of the defenders. The narrow pass was now gorged with warriors as the rest of Gorben’s army jostled behind them, waiting to sweep through to the plain beyond.

Druss, Delnar, Diagoras and a score of others had formed a ring of steel by a cluster of jutting boulders. Fifty paces to the right Sieben, Certak and thirty men were surrounded and fighting furiously. The poet’s face was grey and terrible pain grew in his chest. Dropping his sword he scrambled atop a grey boulder, pulling his throwing knife from its wrist sheath.

Certak parried one thrust, but a spear punched through his breastplate, ripping into his lungs. Blood welled in his throat and he fell. A tall Ventrian leapt to the boulder. Sieben hurled his blade. It took the man through the right eye.

A spear flashed through the air, lancing Sieben’s chest. Strangely, far from causing him pain, it released the agony from his cramped heart. He toppled from the rock, to be swallowed by the black and silver horde.

Druss saw him fall - and went berserk.

Breaking from the shield ring, he launched his giant frame into the massed ranks of the warriors before him, cutting them aside like wheat before a scythe. Delnar closed the ring behind him, disembowelling a Ventrian lancer and locking shields with Diagoras.

Surrounded now by Immortals, Druss hammered his way forward. A spear took him high in the back. He swung round, braining the lancer. A sword bounced from his helm, gashing his cheek. A second spear pierced his side, and a clubbing blow from the flat of a sword thundered into his temple. Grabbing one assailant, he hauled him forward, butting him viciously. The man sagged in his grip. More enemies closed in around the axeman. Using the unconscious Ventrian as a shield, Druss dropped to the ground. Swords and spears slashed at him.

Then came the sound of bugles.

Druss struggled to rise, but a booted foot lashed into his temple and he fell into darkness.

He awoke and cried out. His face was swathed in bandages, his body racked with pain. He tried to sit, but a hand pushed gently on his shoulder.

“Rest, axeman. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“Delnar?”

“Yes. We won, Druss. The army arrived just in time. Now rest.”

The last moments of battle surged back into Druss’s mind. “Sieben!”

“He is alive. Barely.”

“Take me to him.”

“Don’t be a fool. By rights you should be dead. Your body was pierced a score of times. If you move, the stitches will open and you’ll bleed to death.”

“Take me to him, damn you!”

Delnar cursed and helped the axeman to his feet. Calling an orderly who took the weight on the left side, he half-carried the wounded giant to the back of the tent and the still, sleeping form of Sieben the Sagamaster.

Lowering Druss into a seat by the bedside, Delnar and the orderly withdrew. Druss leaned forward, gazing at the bandages around Sieben’s chest, and the slowly spreading red stain at the centre..

“Poet!” he called softly.

Sieben opened his eyes.

“Can nothing kill you, axeman?” he whispered.

“It doesn’t look like it.”

“We won,” said Sieben. “And I want you to note that I didn’t hide.”

“I didn’t expect you to.”

“I’m awfully tired, Druss old horse.”

“Don’t die. Please don’t die,” said the axeman, tears causing him to blink furiously.

“There are some things even you cannot have, old horse. My heart is almost useless. I don’t know why I’ve lived this long. But you were right. They have been good years. I wouldn’t change anything. Not even this. Look after Niobe and the children. And make sure some sagamaster does me justice. You’ll do that?”

“Of course I will.”

“I wish I could be around to add to this saga. What a fitting climax.”

“Yes. Fitting. Listen, poet. I’m not good with words. But I want to tell you… I want you to know you’ve been like a brother to me. The best friend I ever had. The very best. Poet? Sieben?”

Sieben’s eyes stared unseeing at the tent ceiling. His face was peaceful and looked almost young again. The lines seemed to vanish before Druss’s eyes. The axeman began to shake. Delnar approached and closed Sieben’s eyes, covering his face with a sheet. Then he helped Druss back to his bed.

“Gorben is dead, Druss. His own men slew him as they ran. Our fleet has the Ventrians bottled up in the bay. At the moment one of their generals is meeting with Abalayn to discuss surrender. We did it. We held the pass. Diagoras wants to see you. He made it through the battle. Can you believe it, even fat Orases is still with us! Now, I’d have laid ten to one odds he wouldn’t survive.”

“Give me a drink, will you,” whispered Druss.

Delnar came back to his side, bearing a goblet of cool water. Druss sipped it slowly. Diagoras entered the tent, carrying Snaga. The axe had been cleaned of blood and polished to shine like silver.

Druss gazed at it, but did not reach out. The dark-eyed young warrior smiled.

“You did it,” he said. “I have never seen the like. I would not have believed it possible.”

“All things are possible,” said Druss. “Never forget that, laddie.”

Tears welled in the axeman’s eyes, and he turned his head away from them. After a moment he heard them back away. Only then did he allow the tears to fall.